I got my hair done recently. The day of the graduation, actually. And getting your hair done, if you’re a girl, is this long, physically and emotionally draining process that must happen – at the least – twice a year.
I usually leech off my mom when she goes. So the visit goes something like this.
My mom and I enter. Stylist smiles and greets my mom, then gives me a little cocked glance of “oh you‘re back.” I smile awkwardly from the side lines.
My mom and I then sit at the front because her stylist is always running behind, then the receptionist/hairstylist/girl-who-sits-near-the-front-playing-on-her-phone asks us if we want something to drink. Soda, coffee, water, beer?
I usually decline, but this time I go for the water, which comes in a chilled foggy glass, and after my second sip, I realize there are two black things floating in it.
My mom waits for the receptionist to go to the bathroom before running outside and dumping the water in the parking lot. She almost dumped it in a plant by the door, but luckily noticed it was fake before she flooded the little thing.